The Tavern
by Dethroned King
Summary: Rumors have circulated that a man has caused upset throughout the kingdom. . . A oneshot I created. Post a review if you would like to see it be a fully developed story!


The tavern doors opened and in stepped Brand.

The interior was softly lit, if at all. A few small lanterns covered the otherwise dark space, illuminating the bar and several circular tables. The regular patrons sat huddled together over there drinks, the occasional furtive glance being cast over to the newcomer.

The motley of dresses was interesting, much more varied than the commoners of Bryley. There were the farmers, the merchants, the wealthy and noble here, as well as the occasional armed knight or mercenary. Cloaks of every different color were present, while a drunk man in the facade of a jester strummed an instrument sorrowfully, his head down, almost half asleep.

Brand slid up to the bar, finding his feet on a small pedestal below the wooden stool. The cowl of his dark cloak was up, his face looking down. Only the black of his beard came through, coming to a point. The bartender, an old, squat man wearing an apron that may, in a time now forgotten, have been white, saddled over. In his hands was a dirty rug and a glass chalice, in the business of cleaning.

Nodding to Brand, the man set down the glass. "What'll it be?" He asked, his tone monotonous and apathetic, looking bored. Brand looked slightly upwards, the grey-blue eyes of the cloaked man meeting the soft brown of the Bartenders. The eyes seemed to study the bartender, and the man felt as if he was being examined, his whole life laid out bare for this stranger that was at his counter.

At length, Brand replied. "Mottle-Fire Whiskey," the response, a gruff one with no emotion or enunciation attached to it. Quick and concise, to the point, nothing more.

The Bartender nodded. Strange customers had not come through his little tavern before, and this cloaked man would certainly not be the last. Reaching up slightly, he grabbed the bottle and poured it into the glass. Sliding it over to the stranger, he nodded again. "That'll be a half jot."

The silver coin was slid over to the Bartender, and he couldn't resist grabbing it up quickly, dropping it into the apron pocket. As the stranger took a sip, the bartender grabbed another glass from under the counter and began to wipe it with his rag, more habit than actual necessity.

"You heard what happened in Grensvic?" The bartender asked the question his feeble attempt to strike up a conversation. He continued to look down at his glass, scrubbing it with the grimy cloth while he spoke. "They say that one man took on an entire cartel and vaporized them into dust."

Brand took another sip.

The Bartender continued. "They say that this man is a remnant of the ancient Guardians. That he's seeking vengeance on those who destroyed his people," he said conversationally.

Brand set down the glass.

"They say that he is wearing a dark cloak, and has eyes that pierce your soul," the portly man said, taking another look at the man's eyes, which were again focused on him. The uncomfortable feeling came over the Bartender, the same as before.

At last, Brand spoke. "If he is acting against the King's will, then the Royal Guardsmen will find him."

"Right to that," the bartender, replied, his eyes slightly shifting to the door. The way that the man had looked at him. . . the dark cloak. . . _there was a conscripting office down the street_ , the old man thought quickly. _If he yelled. . ._

Brand's eyes saw the door. The nervous look in the man's eyes. Subtlety he extended his hand, barely even a gesture. From under it came a blue mist of sorts, wrapping around the cloaked man's hand quickly before reaching out to the Bartender's seizing it and wrapping itself tightly around the old man's wrist.

The old man snapped back to Brand, rigid and stiff, his eyes a deep, unnatural blue. "You served a farmer a drink, and then he left and you forgot it," Brand whispered softly, his eyes almost glowing from under the cowl of his cloak.

The Bartender gave an almost indecipherable nod, unnoticeable to everyone except Brand. Brand nodded and withdrew his hand, the blue mist recoiling with it. Standing up, he drew the cloak tighter around him, tossing an extra silver piece to the bartender. The man took it, still staring at Brand.

And Brand left.


End file.
